


take my hand (take my whole life, too)

by Adrieunor, weatheredlaw



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, F/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:37:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6587809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrieunor/pseuds/Adrieunor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's always a bunny, and there's always a fox.</p><p>A summer away from the city changes everything - and nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take my hand (take my whole life, too)

The vent for the AC in the back of the car is broken, so Nick spends the five hour car trip out of the city getting occasional bursts of air that alternate between stone cold and hot as hell. He’s crammed himself into the middle, watching Pete and Manny snark back and forth at one another, throwing out an arm occasionally to catch himself as Pete takes a bend in the road too fast. There’s a suspicious stain in the seat on the driver’s side, and four black garbage bags filled with clothes and shoes on the other. Nick passes the time playing Flappy Bird on his phone until dehydration gets the better of him, and he passes out around hour three.

By the time they get to the border of Bunnyburrow, Nick’s vision is blurring along the edges, and his head is pounding. He needs water and a meal, and definitely to get away from the acrid stench of Manny’s vape, which he hasn’t stopped smoking since they left.

Nick would make a poignant remark about trading one habit for the other, but he doesn’t want to get smacked. Again.

Pete drives up the long, gravel driveway leading up to their summer safehouse, turns off the car and says to Nick, “Get the bags, fox.”

Like Nick answers to him.

Like they aren’t all stuck out here for pulling the same stupid shit.

“Get your own bags,” Manny snaps, and yanks the trunk open, tossing their duffels into the drive. Nick snatches up his own, regretting the last handful of pounds he packed into it before leaving, and waits for one of them to fish out the keys.

He smells pollen immediately — the sickly sweet stench of it invades his nostrils, tickles his throat. This is farmland, and they’re in the prime of it. Big had mentioned that the Triburrows were big importers of produce they couldn’t grow in the city — lots of corn and potatoes, wildflowers and carrots. Berries, Nick notes, glancing into the little patch of a garden that’s trying to grow along the side of the house. Maybe when no one was paying attention, he’d get it to do something for him.

Pete grunts, “Out of the way,” and Nick jumps to the side as the wolf drops his duffel and unlocks the door. “Boss said it was cleaned and aired out.”

“Still smells like shit,” Manny mutters. He’s wrong, in the literal sense, but everything _does_ smell like Fabuloso and bleach, and it doesn’t do much for Nick’s head. He makes his way into the kitchen, opening the cabinet doors and searching for a glass. The place is _country_ — every cup is a Mason jar, of varying size and cleanliness. Nick shrugs and pulls one down, fills it with cold tap water and chugs.

“Basement room is yours,” Pete says.

“Whatever.” Nick fills the glass again and grabs up his bag, making his way toward the half open door and peering down the stairs. A little switch juts out from the wall. Nick turns on the light, tosses his bag down the steps, and trails after it.

The basement suits him just fine — even with the light on over the stairs, the room is dark, so Nick adjusts quick enough. He turns on another anyway — a string hanging over the center of the room — and looks around.

It’s finished at least, he thinks, and has a bed and a bathroom, plus a door leading to the outside. The house sits on the crest of a hill, so Nick’s little space is really just dug into the side of it. All of this is good, in his book. Beats hanging around the city, avoiding McHorn’s beat and making excuses for himself.

Beats going to _prison_.

Beats a whole lot of things, he thinks, just before he flops onto the bed to take a nap.

 

* * *

 

Big’s had told them to stay _low_.

“Nothing happened. You don’t _talk_ about _anything_.”

The arctic shrew wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but in so many words he could deliver. Brows raised, those watery eyes had sent a sharp spike of fear into Nick’s gut. Didn’t need a knack for reading people, he’d gotten the message loud and clear: if they failed in this endeavor as badly as their last job, they’d be at the bottom of the nearest icy ravine with a new pair of lead shoes.

Being sent out (read: exiled) into podunk rabbitsville for a few months was nothing short of strategic. Big needed the trio who’d warranted an ongoing investigation out of his fur, and said guilty fucknuts needed time for their figurative and literal scents to clear off from the crime scene.

Nick did _not_ want to end up behind bars in a clashing orange jumpsuit at twenty-six.

Or, alternatively, _die._

It only took a split-second for Nick to decide _hell no_ to both, so when the shrew told him to pack a bag he’d nodded until his head had nearly bobbled off.

“Yes, sir, absolutely, sir” and “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret this, sir.”

Had kept nodding until he’d been allowed to back out of the room, ears pressed tight to his skull and paws folded in a near knuckle-breaking grip.

He’d saved the panic attack for after his apartment door had closed.

 

* * *

 

The produce is organic if not local, reported income and taxes legally clean, and sales are managed by an old timey register Nick’s only seen in movies — the kind that flips little black cards up for each number and dings after every transaction.

A chalkboard display boasts coffee grounded in house, grains and spices by the ounce and pound. There’s a roll of brown paper and twine behind the counter, next to the hand-pulled salt water taffy and pick-and-mix, that suggests they go the full mile.

The modest space is covered by sandy hardwood flooring that’s been weathered by claws and carts. Besides a few errant dust bunnies (can he say that? Is that, like, an _okay_ thing to say here?), the displays and shelves are wiped clean. There’s an old-style feather duster on an embedded nail behind the left side counter that hangs like a prized heirloom.

The place is the reeking embodiment of small business, enough to make Nick’s eye twitch violently. It’s _wholesome_ — what would have been marketed as rustic, “like grandma”-kitsch back in the city. Nick feels his paws twitching, claws flexing, for familiar plastic and chrome and _cement_ at the sight of so much wood and gingham.

It’s as far away from Zootopia’s fare as a city-raised mammal can get. As far away from _Nick’s_ entire aesthetic and interest as anyone can find.

It’s awful.

It’s a nightmare.

It’s _perfect_ -

for hiding three wanted animals.

(Naturally, the business has ties to Big. Peripheral and distant, but ties all the same. Blood is blood, and Big’s is nothing if not Family-oriented.

“My cousin, from my mother’s side,” he’d explained, and that was that.)

 

* * *

 

All things considered, Nick can do a lot worse than a delivery boy and part-time store hand.

His checkered work history can attest to that; spotty and irregular since he was twelve. A permanent temp.

Nick’s relationship with the Big family is tentative. Green. If he can even call what he has a relationship. Entirely open to termination at any point. Permanent kind included. It’s up in the air.

Especially now.

He’d been a promising potential, not quite at the bottom but not quite in the middle of the pecking order - decidedly _just okay_. The entire affair hasn’t endeared him to the family or its associates.

Cousin Ellen’s a vole. Not as ancient as Grandmama. Not a shrew, but he sees the resemblance when she puts her hands on her hips the same way. Nick’s decided to keep sticky paws to himself and his mouth glued shut— doesn’t even make a peep when the purple apron’s tossed his way. _Maybe_ raises his eyebrow judgmentally, but not a _sound_ passes his lips. It’s a small consolation, but he thinks she likes him better than Manny and Pete who immediately get shunted to night stocking. Like, he’s a negative five to their negative fifteen. He’ll take it.

Foxes stick out in Bunnyburrow, but there’s enough of them that he only gets a few raised eyebrows. It doesn’t bother him. He’s not here to make friends. Not even here to make acquaintances. He doesn’t _care._ He’s here to stock produce, lay low, and _get the hell out_ in three months.

The less Nick sees of the wolves the better. The less Nick sees of anyone the better. At this point, he’d be just as well off without a mirror. He’s fine with the entire arrangement.

“Three more months. Three more months. Three more months,” he mouths as he fumbles with the key in the ignition; the truck still hasn’t started and he’s tried three times already.

He’ll endure — the looks, the lack of prime time TV, the death trap delivery truck. All of it.

 

* * *

 

Something no one tells you about the countryside — it’s _hot._

All the open space, all that sunshine, all the buggy humidity that has his fur matted and sweat trickling down his neck. It’s Friday, he keeps telling himself. Late start on Saturday, a few extra hours of _sleep_. The truck makes an unruly _pop_ as he starts imagining what he might make for breakfast, and rattles its way down the road until he can pull off along the shoulder. It’s less a road and more of a glorified dirt path, but it’s called _something_ (West Whisker, he thinks) so that _makes_ it something, whether he agrees or not.

Nick hops out, realizing straight away that the back tire is completely flat, and he is completely out of his depth. “Shit, shit, _shit_ ,” he mutters, kicking at the rim and swearing again. It’s so unbearably hot, so _oppressive_ that he can’t believe he used to complain about city heat even for a second.

This place _sucks_ and Nick is not ashamed to say he sort of wants to die.

And he doesn’t know the first thing about changing a tire. There’s no manual in the truck, no written instructions. He’s a fifteen minute drive from the store, meaning an hour’s walk, most likely, and he wasn’t bright enough to bring water.

(He’s not bright enough for anything, apparently. Not bright enough to keep out of trouble, not bright enough to listen to Finn, not bright enough to work a stupid job at a stupid store in a stupid town full of stupid bunnies—)

“Hey, are you...okay?”

Nick looks up and _speaking of._ He hadn’t even heard the little bike _or_ bunny come over the hill, and she’s got a bell and everything. A hat, too — floppy and decorated with flowers along the inside, tipped to the left as she inspects him in all his wasted glory, bent over and swearing at a popped tire.

“I’m _peachy_ ,” he snaps.

The little bunny sighs, hopping off her bike — soft blue, cute, apropos considering — and knocking down the kickstand.

It even has a _freaking basket._

“Got a flat?” she asks, pushing her hat back over her ears and kneeling down. “If you’ve got a spare, I can fix that up for you.”

Nick blinks. “Huh?”

“Sure. This is Chuck Wader’s truck, isn’t it? The shrew who owns the grocery store.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Someone said he got some new help in there.” She goes around to the back of the truck, climbing onto the bumper and hopping over the hatch. “You and those wolves, right?”

“...Yeah.”

“Couldn’t stand that city? I can’t say I don’t blame you, been trying to make my way there since I finished school. _A-ha!_ ” She brandishes the toolbox and crowbar triumphantly. “I don’t carry mine with me on the bike, but it figures old Chuck would keep some back here for you boys he hires every summer. Seems like he gets a lot of temporary help from the city some months.”

Nick swallows. “Friend of the family.”

The bunny grins. “That’s Chuck for you I guess.” She hops back down and looks over the tire. “Man, you really did a number on this poor thing.”

“I didn’t do it on _purpose._ ”

She raises her paws. “Take it easy, I’m not blaming you for it.” She bends down, bare knees on the dirt road, and pulls the car jack out of the toolbox. Nick can only stare — she’s babbling about changing _loads_ of tires before, how all the girls on the farm learn it before they’ve learned their multiplication tables. “Honestly,” she says, once the truck is lifted, “it’s really not that hard. Here, I’ll show you.” She grabs something and begins twisting off the lug nuts. “Now you see, a lot of folks want to take everything off in a _circle_ , but that’s actually bad for the wheel. You remove them in like a _star_ shape, but you gotta remember which ones you took off first, because they should go back in order.”

“Uh, right.”

“Okay, so you take _this_ off—” Nick watches her paws deftly remove the tire, and sort of zones out has she explains the rest.

It might be the heat, or maybe dehydration — but there is something about _this_ that he finds...interesting.

She doesn’t drop anything. She doesn’t fumble or lose her train of thought. The old tired pops off and into her paws, and the new one goes right on. A spin here, a push or a prod there, and —

“ _And_ done!” She looks up at the sun moving across the sky. “I think that was my best one.”

“Your what?”

“Best time,” she explains. “What would you say, seven minutes?”

Nick shrugs, because he has to do _something._ “Sure,” he says. “Why not?”

“Well, it’s just between us, so.” She stands, brushing the dirt from her knees and putting her paws on her hips. “Look at you, learning new things.”

“Sure did.”

She opens her mouth, conceivably to say something else — but there doesn’t seem to be anything left to say.

“Right.” Nick takes a step back. “Uh, thanks. For doing that.”

Her expression brightens. “Sure! Of course, any time. I mean not that I want you to have regularly flat tires or anything, that’d be really inconvenient. And expensive.And annoying, sort of in a general way. Plus you’d take forever delivering your load—”

“Shit!” Nick throws the door open and starts the truck, glancing at the old digital face on the radio. _Five minutes fast_ , Chuck had said, but that still puts Nick twenty-five minutes _late_ on his delivery. “Shit, I gotta go.” He turns back to her, not really sure what else to _say_. Her babbling is...a weird comfort, given the silence he’s endured the last six days, and she’s looking a little lost there on the side of the road, meandering back to her basket. “Um. You want a ride?”

“Me?”

He sighs. “No, the _other_ extremely helpful rabbit I found in the middle of nowhere.”

“Oh! Uh, sure. Sure, I’ll take a ride.” She ducks her head. “I mean, like. I’ll—”

“Put the bike in the back, fluff.” He slides into the driver’s seat hearing the clang as the bike and tools hit the truck bed. She settles next to him. “Hey, you know the Porters?”

“I know everyone out here,” she says.

“Great, so you can explain this to them.”

“Oh, they won’t care. No one out here really cares about timing, except for your boss.”

“Yeah,” Nick mutters. “I’ve noticed.”

“You’re not really a type-a kind of guy, huh?”

Nick glances at her, thinks, _you’ve got no idea, sweetheart_ , and smiles.

“Nope,” he says. “Not even a little.”

 

* * *

 

Her name is Judy, Nick learns, and she’s going to be a police officer.

“And I _know_ there’s never been a bunny cop, believe me—”

“You get that a lot, huh?”

“Like, every day.”

Nick shrugs. “They’re not wrong.”

“Only about _that_ ,” she insists. “They’re wrong about the other stuff.”

“Such as?”

“Such as I can’t _be_ one, or I’m not _strong_ enough, or I don’t have the _guts._ ” She sniffs. “I’ve got plenty of guts. Ask anyone.”

“You changed my tire,” Nick points out. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Judy smiles. Her little hat rests on the middle seat between them, and Nick realizes the flowers on it are real, and fresh. One paw slides out to touch a petal every now and again, before it fiddles with the radio. “There’s nothing good until you get back into town,” she says. As if the prove her point, the second they roll down Main Street, the radio begins to yodel. She turns it off. “So. Nick.”

“That’s my name.”

“What do you do in the city?”

The question sets off alarm bells. _What do you do? What did you do? Why do you do this, why won’t you just get your shit together and grow up, Nicky, I’m trying so hard to help you, Nicky_ —

“I temp.”

“Odd jobs.”

“Sure. Little things here and there.”

“Jack of all trades, huh?”

“Well I can change a tire now, so yeah. Pretty much.” He grins at her, and one of her ears lifts, just a little. Nick doesn’t know many rabbits, but he figures movement is a good sign. He clearly hasn’t scared her to death, considering the few bunnies he _does_ know don’t trust him. Like, _at all._

Nick pulls the truck up to the store, shuts it off, and helps her get her bike out of the truck.

“Hey, thanks again.”

“Oh, sure.” She brushes the dust off the seat, placing her hat in the basket. The sun is starting to go down. “I mean it was fun, right? Meet a new person, do a new thing.” She smiles, and Nick supposes it’s not _meant_ to be disarming, considering none of hers have been yet — but it _is._ A lot.

“You...want a ride home?”

She shakes her head. “It’s alright. Sure is nice of Chuck to let you keep the truck though.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, he’s...he’s swell.” _I’m sorry who the hell are you? What are you saying?_ “Uh, I’ll see you around though, right?”

“Well, I _do_ live here.”

Nick nods. “Right. No, I knew that.”

“And _you_ sort of live here, too.”

“I sort of live here, too.”

Judy nods. “Okay.” She deftly pushes up the kickstand and throws a leg over her bike. “I’ll see you. Maybe tomorrow. Can’t be sure, you know. Busy day, probably, rescuing foxes from themselves.”

“A regular superhero,” he agrees, and gives her a wave as she pushes off down the road. He goes inside to file away the delivery receipts. Chuck and his wife, Ellen, are perched on the counter.

“That Judy Hopps?” Chuck asks.

“Yeah, the truck got a flat today.”

“I _told_ you to change that,” Ellen snaps. “You can’t expect this boy to change a tire on his own.”

Chuck gripes back, “Well, thank the good Lord for the Hopps kids, huh?”

“They sure are a helpful lot.”

“ _And_ plentiful.”

Nick raises a brow. So the rabbit’s reputation precedes her. An interesting development in a situation that should, overall, _not_ be interesting at all.

Afterall, _she’s_ just a rabbit.

And _this_ is just a stupid job, at a stupid store, in a stupid town.

That’s all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we made a thing. what started as an off-the-cuff "what if" ended up thousands of words shared back and forth. _entirely self-indulgent._ there's an entire universe of this trashbag summer au.


End file.
